


come and put a little love here in my void

by amorremanet



Series: a gnawing feeling leaves you quite unsure [5]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Punk, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Denial of Feelings, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fade to Black, Hurt Lotor (Voltron), Hurt Shiro (Voltron), Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lotor (Voltron) Is A Mess, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Past Abuse, Past Keith/Shiro (Voltron), Past Sendak/Shiro (Voltron), Recovery, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Shiro (Voltron) is a Mess, Slice of Life, Trust Issues, feels without plot, twinganes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 07:06:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16321469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: Lotor planned to spend an evening alone. Instead, an unexpected booty call (in which he, of course, has no emotional investment) takes a more interesting turn.“I wasn’t ignoring you or anything,” Shiro mutters. “Not since I got back, I mean. Texas was a lot? I wanted to see you? But Ryou’s been on my case? Which only made me want to see you more, but I…” He shakes his head. “I’ve been kind of a mess?”“You owe me no explanations, darling.”Whether or not Lotor means this, he can’t say. Shiro truly owes him nothing. Any consideration from Shiro, much less some explanation about he’s saying or some insight into what he means, would be a gift — if and only if Shiro ever decides to allow Lotor in like that. In the meantime, he presses his ankle into the muscle of Shiro’s leg. Tries to focus on that, rather than his thoughts about Shiro’s implications or the possible directions they could lead, beyond tonight. Thinking about improving one’s lot paves the road to Hell even better than good intentions.Regardless, he whispers, “Mess or not, I am merely relieved to see you.”





	come and put a little love here in my void

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 164th Birthday to my main bae and patron saint, Oscar Wilde. I could think of no better celebration than finishing a completely self-indulgent backstory one-shot about sad pretty boys looking for love and comfort, making questionable life-choices, and being dysfunctional at each other.
> 
> In the overall series timeline: this fic is set almost a year after **[Sendak took Shiro from Keith](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12269214/chapters/27884613)** and put him in the gilded cage of an upscale townhouse, and a few weeks before **[Keith has an outburst at Kolivan and mistakes someone else for Ryou](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15302247/chapters/35509449)**. Like, during the majority of this fic, Keith is kipped out in the backseat of Alfor’s Benz and then having an incredibly awkward first meeting with his girlfriend’s father, because they skip over things he’s prepared for (e.g., promising to treat Allura well and do right by her) to stuff like, “Explaining that he lost his student housing, hence breaking into the Benz for a place to sleep.”
> 
> This time, the title was shamelessly ripped off from **“[Paper Bag](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BK30r_SIZ-g)”** by Fiona Apple.

A swift triple-knock smacks into the front door, and Lotor groans. He’s allowed that sort of response, when he’d planned on lounging in solitude and his black, purple, and silver plaid pajamas. With Acxa, Ezor, and Zethrid out for the evening — with Narti having taken Cova for a long weekend at her parents’ — Lotor was meant to have the house to himself and his guitar. As much as he loves his friends, he should be working on new songs uninterrupted, not dragging himself out of _his spot_ and pausing to check his ponytail in the full-length mirror by the closet.

For crashing in on him so rudely, this interloper deserves a scathing verbal evisceration.

Rather, they deserve it until Shiro turns out to be said interloper.

At the sight of him standing there, shoulders hunched ever-so-slightly and scratching the back of his neck, Lotor forgets every insult that he has stored up. Most of his vocabulary disappears as well, simply seeing his _“whatever we have would be complicated in Facebook terms, if Shiro only had an account on Facebook.”_

Similarly perplexing, Shiro’s current attire can’t help drawing Lotor’s eyes, mostly on account of him wearing an unseasonable amount of clothing. Even given that spring has, so far, been chilly, Shiro must be wearing far too much. Beneath a half-zipped hooded sweatshirt and an old flannel, Lotor picks out two visible t-shirt collars. The black shirt on top has a red rose in silhouette and white script letters over top its long stem, spelling out the word _“violator”_ — Lotor huffs and affectionately rolls his eyes at Shiro’s choice of Depeche Mode album cover.

“My _Songs of Faith and Devotion_ shirt is still in the dirty laundry,” Shiro says, toeing out of his sneakers before following Lotor past the sofa and the coffee-table, currently buried under a mess of Zethrid’s research on lesbian erotic science-fiction. “I would’ve put on something nicer if I’d planned on ending up here.”

Lotor quirks his shoulders and hums. “You would have texted me as well, had you planned this visit.”

Shiro’s last text came in three days ago, letting Lotor know that he’d safely returned from spring break. No explanation about _why_ he and his brother needed to spend five days in Corpus Christi, after spending two equally unexplained weeks in California — but then again, Shiro is not Lotor’s _boyfriend_. If he does not _wish_ to explain what required him and his twin to visit a city whose very name reminds Lotor too clearly of being dubbed a tumor on the spiritual body at the Young Men’s Academy of Saint Lotor the Passion-bearer, and more so of the on-campus church at his and Acxa’s old prep school? Then Shiro doesn’t _need_ to say anything. Since they are not dating, Lotor likely has no right to ask.

In a similar vein, he supposes that he has no right to question why Shiro has decided to dress himself as he has. Not that Shiro looks _bad_ , when Lotor offers him a drink and he slumps against the counter, loosely hugging himself, wearing more layers than the weather should make necessary. But no one makes such counterintuitive clothing choices without good reason. Lotor’s year-round long sleeves, for instance: he would never subject himself to them, if not for the mess of pale, crosshatched scars that litter his wrists and arms.

Whatever has motivated Shiro to wear at least three layers on such a temperate, comfortable night, it doesn’t detract from his beauty. Truly, Shiro is a work of art, even when he seems made of glass. With his black hair wilting over his forehead, the kitchen’s fluorescent lighting drowns out the tawny of his skin. The dark rings beneath his eyes look like fresh bruises. Tired, as always. Idly tapping his thumb in no particular rhythm, as usual. Perpetually slow to relax, he gasps and perks up at any sound in the alley between this house and the one next-door, then glances out the window over the cluttered kitchen sink.

As ever, Shiro doesn’t let himself breathe until he’s certain that no danger has come looking for him.

Hands clasped around his mug of tea, Lotor leans opposite Shiro and says nothing. For one thing, calling attention to this behavior could make Shiro clam up. Anyway, Lotor has seen him do things like this often enough that he’s somewhat accustomed to it.

For another, Lotor tenses up in similar fashions when people slam doors too abruptly or with too much force. On particularly wretched days, he plays his music too loudly, as though this might smother all of the thoughts that he would rather not endure. Nevertheless, he recoils when voices raise too high in conversation. When he’s cloistered himself away from the world at large, no one can enter his bedroom without first knocking, not unless they wish to be on the receiving end of Lotor’s wrath. Not even Acxa has that privilege, though she knows better than to push Lotor on this matter.

Although he and Shiro have acknowledged nothing to this effect, they know the world in certain bone-deep, inescapably similar ways. Each of them has reached out to caress the other’s face, only for him to flinch as if expecting something poisonous or painful. Without a sound, Lotor brushes a bare foot up the inside of Shiro’s calf, running his skin up Shiro’s weathered, slightly faded black denim. Hopefully, this contact from Lotor will remind his _someone-or-other_ that he is not alone.

“I wasn’t ignoring you or anything,” Shiro mutters, apparently fixated on the linoleum. Once he’s fumbled his hoodie’s zipper down, he presses his palms into the counter’s edge. “Not since I got back, I mean. Texas was, like, a lot? More so than it always… I wanted to see you? But things down there got all kinds of tangled up, and Ryou’s been on my case since we got back? Which only made me want to see you _more_ , but I…” He shakes his head. “I’ve been kind of a mess?”

“You owe me no explanations, darling.”

Whether or not Lotor means this, he can’t say. Shiro truly owes him nothing. _Any_ consideration from Shiro, much less some explanation about he’s saying or some insight into what he means, would be a gift — _if_ and only if Shiro ever decides to allow Lotor in like that. In the meantime, he presses his ankle into the muscle of Shiro’s leg. Tries to focus on _that_ , rather than his thoughts about Shiro’s implications or the possible directions they could lead, beyond tonight. Thinking about improving one’s lot paves the road to Hell even better than good intentions.

Regardless, he whispers, “Mess or not, I am merely relieved to see you.”

Taking a long drink of tea, Lotor drags his eyes all over Shiro’s body and tries not to think about how little of that beauty he’s actually seen. Even though they have been screwing around on and off since November, Lotor has yet to be so privileged. In fairness, Shiro has not yet seen Lotor completely naked either, but he’s had glimpses of Lotor’s bare legs and ass. He’s seen more of Lotor’s body than Lotor has seen of his.

Although he keeps his expression pointedly neutral, Lotor searches for any clues that might help him better assess what’s going on, if anything. The collar of Shiro’s top-shirt gapes quite a bit, letting Lotor see a wide strip of the shirt beneath it (also black, resting closer to Shiro’s skin). His jeans don’t quite _hang_ on him, nor do they threaten to slip off. But as Shiro shifts from foot to foot, Lotor sees more fabric than he does evidence of thigh. He only picks out the vaguest hints of Shiro’s chest and hips when they nudge against his shirts.

Then, there is the matter of Shiro’s face: lovely, yes, and his high cheekbones are nothing new. Are they _truly_ casting shadows over the rest of his face, though, or is Lotor imagining things? If it were Acxa’s face, he’d have an easier time of discerning anything about Shiro’s current state. He knows the angles and contours of her face as well as he knows his own. He _knows_ what to look for with her, which signs might indicate that she isn’t entirely—

“I’m sorry for coming over so late,” Shiro says, voice breathy but loud enough to derail Lotor’s thoughts.

“I obviously was not sleeping,” Lotor points out. He tightens his grip on his mug, not enough to start going white-knuckled but enough that the faintly warm ceramic nestles close to his palms. “If I truly objected to your presence, I would have told you to leave.”

Strictly speaking, Lotor has said truer things before. He isn’t _completely_ lying, though.

As he ghosts his foot up and down Shiro’s inseam, Lotor allows himself a soft sigh. Nearly silent, Shiro takes his stormcloud eyes off the floor and blinks at Lotor. The look on Shiro’s face sends a chill to the pit of his stomach as if he’s had a brick of ice shoved where his heart should be, as if each beat sends more cold shocks through him than blood.

Still dry, Shiro’s eyes gleam with a desperate, practically empty edge, somewhere between a man who’s starving, a prisoner who’s ready to fight his way out of his cage, and someone who’s so worn and tired that it’s a miracle they’re still standing on their own two feet. 

Lotor buries himself in a long drink of tea and wishes that he didn’t recognize this look. He wouldn’t wish it on anyone, least of all someone like Shiro. Meaning, someone who is kind more often than not, and someone whom Lotor rather enjoys. In the hopes of alleviating Shiro’s pain, he drops his foot. Breaks off the contact between them. Perhaps Shiro cannot handle being touched like that tonight, not even by someone he has so thoroughly wrecked with his long fingers, his painstaking care, and his impossibly beautiful mouth.

But Shiro’s shoulders droop. His face softens — his lips slip open without saying anything and his eyes widen ever-so-slightly — which makes him look more lost than anything. Lost and so much younger than twenty-four.

“Did you and Ryou sit down together later than usual?” Lotor keeps his tone pointedly light. “If he got caught up with his studies, or with a meeting, and you could not eat until he returned home… No wonder the sun would have nearly set before you found your way here…”

Ryou is a graduate student at the university, working with Dr. Iverson. Something on campus could have required him to stay late. For reasons unknown to Lotor — though he has done his fair share of speculating — Shiro takes most meals with other people, whether this means his brother or Lotor or some of the friends whom Lotor has heard of but not met. By his own account, Shiro prefers eating with Ryou. True, he often says so in the same tone that he might use to say that he would prefer a quick, clean death to being slowly tortured until both his body and his spirit have irreparably shattered. All the same, Shiro has a preference. Anyone who would dare challenge him on that would deserve whatever retribution might befall them.

If he and Ryou started dinner late, then Shiro also would have gotten a late start on the walk that he so often takes in the evenings. Naturally, he would not have made it to Lotor’s place until now. If any of this hypothetical explanation contains a germ of truth, then Lotor understands as much as he can with only has a fraction of the story… Except Shiro shakes his head and says that it wasn’t like that tonight.

“Ryou wouldn’t let me go out for a while,” he admits and combs trembling fingers through his languid hair. “I mean, I don’t blame him for being cautious or protective? Not after how things went in Texas, but…” Shiro shrugs as if there’s nothing to be done. “Then, once I was out and walking, it felt so much like… I don’t even—”

_“Iiii don’t want to be a legend! Oh, well, that’s a goddamned lie, I do! To say I do this for the people, I admit, is hardly true!”_

Whatever Shiro meant to say, Emilie Autumn’s swelling music and trilling contralto burst forth, at full volume, from one of his sweatshirt’s pockets.

This song, “Swallow,” is one of Lotor’s favorite from Autumn’s oeuvre, but one fact refuses to let him appreciate it. Namely: Shiro’s normal ringtone — or at least the one that Lotor hears every time Shiro misplaces his phone and needs assistance — is Judas Priest’s “Better By You, Better Than Me.”

Considering that Shiro’s own music falls into the “sad, sweet, soulful singer-songwriter with the voice of an angel and an acoustic guitar” genre, Lotor never expected him to favor such musically heavy ringtones. But the fact that he has _this_ song, and that specific section…?

With a deep groan, Shiro unpockets his phone. Without looking at the screen, he rolls his eyes as if the mere thought of answering this call makes him want to scream or put his fist through a pane of glass. Grumbling a string of curses that can’t decide between being English or Japanese, Shiro cringes as if he could start crying. The spectral pallor of his cheeks makes Lotor’s breath hitch in his throat. Vaguely, he wishes that he knew anything he could say that might ameliorate whatever situation he’s gained a front-row, center seat for, at the moment.

None of which makes Shiro’s phone stop ringing: _“You tell me everything’s alright, as though it’s something you’ve been through. You think this torment is romantic? Well, it’s not, except—”_

“I’m _fine_ , okay. Calm _down_ ,” Shiro sighs, digging the small of his back against the counter. If he’d put more energy into this response, then he would be snapping. Instead, his entire body droops as if he knew that this was coming but still could not adequately prepare himself. “I _am_ fine, Ryou! I lost track of time, then I wanted to go see Lotor. Now, I’m at his place. That’s all.”

Lotor’s heart does not skip a beat as he sets his empty mug in the sink, atop a stack of plates. Said organ does not flip-flop against the confines of his rib-cage, either. Neither of those things happen because Lotor is not in high school. He turned twenty-five a week before first meeting Shiro. He and the ladies are nearly finished bringing their second full-length album to fruition. He is an adult, and his own person outside of they life his parents try to force upon him, and he has no time for such nonsensical, adolescent silliness. Nothing flutters inside Lotor’s chest over hearing Shiro tell his brother that he _wanted_ to be here.

Regardless, Lotor allows himself to rest beside Shiro. Careful not to intrude too much into his personal space, Lotor leans toward Shiro’s right shoulder and his unoccupied hand. Shiro likely intends to put Ryou on the receiving end of his rolling eyes, to mock _Ryou_ with the way he sardonically moves his lips, mouthing nothing in particular.

The next sigh comes from some unspeakably deep part of Shiro’s chest and pulls him even further into drooping. Or perhaps the blame falls more on whatever Ryou’s saying right now. Whichever explanation is more accurate, Shiro edges toward Lotor. He nods when Lotor holds up a hand by way of asking for permission. When Lotor curls his fingers around his shoulder, Shiro leans into the contact. When Lotor caresses his bicep, he very nearly smiles.

“Well, I was _going_ to call, if you hadn’t gotten so _impatient_ ,” Shiro says with less edge in his voice. As Lotor rubs at his back and shoulders, Shiro seems to lose some of the tension making him hunch around himself like a frightened cat. “Look, don’t wait up for me, okay? I’m not coming home tonight—”

Ryou’s, _“Excuse me, what?!”_ is loud enough that Lotor hears it. Thankfully, he doesn’t flinch.

As Ryou goes on about, _“Are you joking with me right now”_ this, and, _“Why wouldn’t you go to Hunk and Lance’s place, they haven’t seen you since we got back either”_ that, and, _“Blah blah blah, after what happened in Texas, Kashi, you cannot possibly be serious,”_ he raises his voice enough that Shiro puts a few inches between the phone and his ear.

Rather than respond, Shiro swallows thickly and switches over to speakerphone. Lotor would ask why, if he could do so without exacerbating matters. Based on Ryou’s babbling, Lotor gets the sense that speaking up might give Shiro’s brother ideas of storming over here. Whether he wanted to drag Shiro home or only verify Shiro’s safety, Ryou has hellcat levels of nerve and determination. If such spirit runs in their family as Lotor suspects it does, then Ryou can put up a suitably impressive fight. None of them needs to deal with that, now.

Shiro’s face dulls over, listening to Ryou ask him yet again whether or not he’s serious about this. Even so, he hears his brother out. Silently, he shifts around against the counter. Gently, Shiro presses his shoulder-blade into Lotor’s touch. This does not make Lotor’s insides do any ridiculous gymnastics. No matter if Shiro appreciates the contact, Lotor does not indulge himself in nonsense befitting a teenage teenybopper with an utterly atrocious crush.

Besides, Shiro provides a more than ample distraction from whatever emotions might or might have not kindled in Lotor’s chest. As he moves his hand around Shiro’s back, Lotor finds more fabric than body. Not that Shiro feels _insubstantial_ , but there ought to be more of him.

“I _am_ being serious,” he huffs. “And I’m thinking that I wanted to see Lotor, so I came to do that.”

“Why won’t you come home tonight, though,” Ryou says with the air of someone who has fast grown weary of arguing sociopolitical semantics with a brick wall. “You can see Lotor _without_ staying out all night. Just… Kashi, if you’ve had a drink, or a few, or however many? I swear, I’m _concerned_ for you like always, but I am not mad, or upset, I just—”

“I haven’t had _anything_ to drink. Not a thing since that Diet Coke with dinner. Thank you _so much_ for asking, actually.” The way that Shiro jerks his head makes Lotor wonder if he meant to smack his skull against the cabinets. But he only tilts it back as he tells Ryou, “I’m not drunk. I am not _high_. I’m stone-cold sober, not like that matters when you’ve made up your mind already. I more or less cleared my head while I was out on my walk—”

“Then _why_ won’t you come _home_?” Ryou groans, and Shiro’s expression looks the way his brother sounds, at present. “Kashi- _niichan_ , please… I’m not trying to make accusations about what you’re doing? And I don’t want to make you feel stifled or anything? But with how things have been for you lately? And then with Texas? What else am I _supposed_ to hear when you tell me you aren’t coming home—”

“Oh my God, _seriously_?!” Shiro groans, but manages to keep his volume well controlled. The stress of that restraint comes out in the tightness of his voice, but Lotor appreciates it all the same. Shiro minding how loud he is means that Lotor can keep stroking up his back as he tells his brother, “Honestly, what the Hell does ‘Don’t wait up’ mean when _normal_ people say it?”

Dimly, Lotor wants to point out that, _“Don’t wait up”_ could mean several things to different people.

Then again, far too many aspects of his being and his life story mean that Lotor likely does not count as any kind of _normal_ person. Considering this, his opinion on matters of what normal people do or don’t counts for far less than someone else’s might. Anyway, Shiro doesn’t need to hear a counterargument like that, right now.

Clutching his phone, Shiro can’t help a scarlet flush from flaring up on his cheeks. As his knuckles go white, the red seeps down toward his neck. He drags himself through several deep breaths, but his hand keeps trembling. The way that he sets his jaw looks like he wouldn’t argue if offered the chance to punch a cinder-block. If he managed to resist the impulse, then it would only be because battering his fist against concrete would thrash his ability to play his guitar.

Silence creeps into the kitchen and crawls along Lotor’s skin as each of the twins waits for the other to say something. He drains his tea, but neither of them speaks up. Amidst his own breath, Shiro’s, and Ryou’s, Lotor picks out what sounds like stray cats or raccoons pawing through the trash outside. Despite opening his mouth as if he has more to say, Shiro cannot find his voice. Or maybe he doesn’t want to. Perhaps he’s trying to make his brother relent first. Whichever explanation most closely resembles the truth, it’s almost as bad as visiting Mother and Father, waiting for them to drop all of their unbecoming, tedious, corpse-stiff niceties and treat Lotor like the disappointing disgrace that they’ve always thought he is.

“Uh, alright, I have an idea of what you mean,” Ryou finally acquiesces. “But in the interests of not making you feel like I’m talking over you, Kashi- _niichan_? Can you _please_ just… Humor me for a minute? Do what they tell you at meetings and tell me what you mean in _your own_ words?”

“I mean that I want to have _sex_ tonight, _okay_.” Shiro’s trying to sound angry, but doesn’t have that kind of fire. Instead, he sounds like someone’s ground him so far into the dirt that he can’t pull himself back out. “Thanks for interrogating me before I even got the chance to ask Lotor if he wants to, or how he feels about it, or _anything_. Really makes me feel _trusted_ , brother.”

“I’m sorry,” Ryou says, and sounds quite genuine. The alleged contrition isn’t laced with venom like Mother’s, or teeming with condescension like Father’s. There’s a nervous edge to his voice, but that could mean anything. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like I don’t trust you, Kashi. All I’m feeling, really? Is, like I said, concerned about my brother. My _only_ brother, but…” He sighs in undirected exasperation. “Do you see why I was worried about something like this, though?”

“Yeah, I get it.” Not hollow but almost automatic, Shiro’s reply sends a shiver down Lotor’s spine. “I slipped up again in Texas. I don’t open up enough. You don’t want anything to happen to me. _Ohana_ means ‘family’ and ‘family’ means you won’t leave me behind, not ever, and I absolutely _understand_ that. You don’t have anything to prove, I get it…”

As Shiro slackens and crumples around himself, the air in the kitchen feels heavy with an unspoken _“but.”_ For a long moment, he goes funereally quiet. Another moment passes without a word or any noise aside from Shiro’s breathing. When Ryou gently calls out, _“Kashi? Are you still there,”_ Shiro inhales so sharply, his breath could rival the heirloom blade that Acxa keeps safe for Lotor, so that he can’t use it on himself again.

“Kashi?” Ryou keeps his voice soft but strains around a note of anxiety.

Shiro hangs his head. “Look. It’s bad enough that I’ve given you so much reason to doubt me. It’s worse enough that I know this. It’s even worse that _everyone but Lotor, Lance, and Ulaz_ is always tiptoeing around broken glass with me—”

“Since when are we doing that? Since when are _any_ of us—”

“Since _always_ , Ryou!” Shiro’s hand shakes so much, it’s a miracle he doesn’t drop his phone. “Since before I agreed to rehab! Literally all the time since I got out. Every single day, on an absolutely constant basis, no matter what I do or don’t. The only time when _you specifically_ didn’t was in California for our birthday, and that was—”

Yanking his fingers through his hair, Shiro lets out a half-baked, not-quite-sob. He barely manages a whisper as he says, “Except for Lance, Lotor, and my _therapist_ , all y’all act like I got put back together with Elmer’s Glue. Like you can’t knock me over or Mom will get home and find out that something’s _broken._ ”

If tonight were any sort of normal night for Lotor — meaning, one in which an unexpected but quite welcome booty call was _not_ preemptively interrupted by his _“it’s complicated”’_ s brother meddling and getting somewhat overly protective — Lotor might appreciate the twang that Shiro briefly allows out of its cage.

Unfortunately, tonight is the sort of night where Lotor must squint at Shiro’s hand in order to discern if the poor boy is tugging on his hair too hard. The sort of night where Lotor takes the opportunity to examine Shiro’s wrist, trying to see how visible or not it is. The sort of night where Lotor can’t celebrate the fact that Shiro made a booty call, because dwelling on it might lead him to miss something important when Shiro desperately needs to have _someone_ in his corner.

Thankfully, Shiro doesn’t flinch when Lotor’s fingers curl around his elbow. Double-thankfully, he lets up on his hair, dropping that hand back to the counter. He doesn’t seem any calmer, but there’s probably only so much luck that they can hope for in a single evening.

As Lotor gives Shiro a gentle squeeze, Ryou whispers, “Mom _would not_ think you’re broken, Kashi—”

“Look, will you feel better if I meet you for breakfast before you have to be at school?” Shiro wilts as he waits for Ryou to agree and ask where he wants to go. “Yvonne’s? It’s close enough to campus and I mostly know what I like there?”

Getting another agreement out of his brother doesn’t make Shiro smile. Setting a time for their breakfast meeting does not help him relax, not even slightly. After the twins affirm that they love each other, he lets Ryou hang up first.

For a long moment, Shiro only blinks down at his phone’s background: the tiny clownfish from _Finding Nemo_ , glowering as he raises a fin to touch the underside of a boat. Putting the image together with the song that played when Ryou called, Lotor can’t help but see potential layers of significance. An identification with an animated fish who hates the constant, overprotective invalidation by somebody who claims to love him… Lyrics insisting that things are quite awful but the singer is only heard by people who don’t attempt to truly understand her pain… Then, these are assigned to the brother of whom Shiro always speaks so highly…

Lotor purses his lips and chokes back the litany of objections budding in his throat. He and Ryou have yet to meet each other. It hasn’t been a priority since Lotor and Shiro are not _together_ in the conventional sense. True, Lotor shouldn’t judge his _“it’s complicated”’_ s brother — but facing the present circumstances, he can’t quite help it. 

Now that Shiro isn’t handling such an important call, though, Lotor could stand to get closer. Hesitating in case Shiro objects, Lotor edges toward what remains of Shiro’s personal space. Met with no resistance, he curls against Shiro’s side, rests his chin on Shiro’s shoulder. He tries not to feel _too_ put out when Shiro doesn’t look up from his phone’s blank screen — and strangely, he puts his own objections to rest without much trouble. Would Lotor prefer to have attention lavished on him? Of course he would. But he would prefer to know, and get more peace from knowing, that Shiro is alright.

This realization, in itself, threatens to make Lotor’s lungs seize up. How he refrains from fainting, Lotor cannot say for certain. Whether or not it even matters, he doesn’t know. Embracing Shiro around the shoulders, Lotor wonders if his own ignorance makes any significant difference. If so, then that difference might not be for the worse. Too many variables merit consideration; any attempted prediction could come up woefully inaccurate.

“You don’t have to sleep with me,” Shiro mutters. “Or I can get my shoes and call Lance. It’s fine, if you want me to leave—”

“I’m glad that you’re here, darling,” Lotor tells him, because it’s what Shiro needs to hear right now. Conveniently, it also happens to be true. Sighing, he rests his hand on the small of Shiro’s back. “I’m glad that you came here instead of going somewhere else. Or worse, wandering alone until you found yourself in who knows what sort of trouble.”

Shiro says nothing to this, merely turns to look at Lotor full-on. He doesn’t narrow his eyes, but as he pockets his phone, the way that he takes in Lotor’s face has an edge to it. Not an _unpleasant_ one, not quite? But something like he’s searching Lotor’s entire being for any hint of a fabrication. Right now, Shiro cannot currently handle being lied to, not even in the slightest fashion. Not even by someone telling him what he wishes to hear.

How he can satiate his curiosity or see much of anything when there’s hardly any distance between them, Lotor doesn’t know. Then again, it doesn’t entirely matter. He isn’t the one who most needs reassurance, tonight.

Keeping everything he’s thinking to himself, Lotor nudges closer to Shiro. He angles his head so that he could go in for a kiss, if he so desired. He _does_ desire, but that isn’t Lotor’s call, right now. Not when Shiro’s had his ability to make his own decisions questioned so thoroughly by somebody who justifies that behavior by claiming to love Shiro… Who claims that everything is alright because he cites some concern over Shiro’s health and his well-being, and he only does any of this because he cares… Yes, of course. As though family ever makes such promises in earnest.

For a moment, Shiro blinks at Lotor as if he can’t fathom what he’s being offered, much less understand it. Hopefully stifling any confusion about his intent, Lotor pushes Shiro’s sweatshirt aside. No matter how much he yearns to touch Shiro everywhere — to finally feel of what he’s hidden underneath of his layers upon layers of clothing — and no matter how much that desire threatens to set him alight from the inside out, Lotor only goes for Shiro’s hip.

He rests his palm there as gently as he can. He does not grab hold or dig in his fingertips. He simply ghosts a touch onto Shiro’s side, once again finding more fabric than body, and angles into his personal space. For all he’s normally not the type, Lotor prays that Shiro gets the message, that he interprets it correctly.

Shiro takes another moment to consider, then throws his hesitation out the window. Rushing in headlong, he catches Lotor’s mouth like a bear-trap. One moment, he’s inhaling as he would normally, fighting to keep his breathing even, lest he unwittingly startle Shiro or give him cause to doubt the good faith underlying Lotor’s actions.

The next moment, Shiro’s lips swoop down on Lotor’s own, and he cannot help but whine against them.

God, but Shiro’s mouth is beautiful. Smooth and warm and faintly tasting of his sweet-but-spicy chapstick. Nothing alcoholic on his breath as his tongue worms into Lotor’s mouth. Only the warm, damp sensation that can’t be any different from anybody else’s mouth, except for all the inexplicable reasons why it is. Lotor can’t put words on them any more than he can fathom why he _cares_ that he can taste no traces of tequila. Whatever Ryou thinks about his brother’s drinking, Shiro clearly does not have a problem with alcohol. If _Mother_ can consume nunvil and vodka the way that she does and still be fine—

Lotor groans and sucks on Shiro’s tongue, pushing into the kiss as if he’s dying and there’s a miracle cure buried inside of Shiro’s mouth. He curls his arm tighter around Shiro’s waist, tugs Shiro flush against him. Banishing any thoughts of death, he slips his hand into Shiro’s back pocket, grateful when he cops a feel of Shiro’s ass without being obstructed by his wallet. Shiro squeaks; Lotor smirks. But he holds his breath while waiting for Shiro to move on him more properly. To prove that he wants to be here, wants to finally let Lotor touch him.

As Lotor’s lungs protest the lack of air, Shiro snakes an arm around his shoulders, knocking his ponytail without completely unsettling it. He cups his other hand around Lotor’s jaw. Caresses him so delicately that Lotor gasps. First, the warmth of Shiro’s skin along his own and the faint scrape of unfiled calluses as Shiro’s fingertips trace down the apple of his cheek. Then, the force as Shiro throws himself into another kiss and goes deeper than he has dared so far.

He knows what he’s doing with his mouth, and any tension that shocks into Lotor quickly dissipates. For once, when Lotor gets a rush of warmth, he doesn’t have that pins and knives and needles feeling like there’s poison waiting for him underneath of everything. However hard Shiro rubs his lips on Lotor’s, he has no mind to harm him.

Instead, Shiro clings to Lotor as if reaching out to him, seeking salvation in a storm. When he whispers a wish to relocate, Shiro has no motivation beyond seeking exactly what he says that he wants. No hidden meanings to decipher, no unseen strings that become a hangman’s noose and attempt to control Lotor’s entire life. Straightforward, uncomplicated, open.

Of course, such things are not always true, not even with Shiro. But as he leads Shiro down the hall, as he shuts the door behind them, as he tugs Shiro back into his mouth, Lotor tries to focus only on Shiro. Subtext, while unfortunately unavoidable in, has neither place nor purpose in this room tonight. He nudges Shiro’s hoodie off his shoulders, then his beat-up old flannel. With a playful smirk, he guides Shiro to his bed. Normally, this leads to Shiro kneeling for Lotor, ready to work him over well and thoroughly.

Tonight, however, Shiro stays there, waiting for something. He smooths a palm over his knee, rippling over the denim, but he looks up when Lotor joins him on the mattress. Awash in the light of his bedside lamp, Shiro doesn’t seem too shaky or too pale. Splashed across his nose and cheeks, the scar he got in California cuts a sullen swath of red through the warm tawny of his otherwise unmarred skin. He blushes as Lotor slinks toward him, as the backs of Lotor’s long fingers trace down his cheek.

“Take your time, darling.” As if this somehow emphasizes his point, Lotor brushes Shiro’s hair back off his forehead. “Take as much time as you need… We have all night, if you like…”

Swallowing thickly, Shiro blushes and and briefly — very briefly — meets Lotor’s eyes. Even given the option to slow down as necessary, he edges toward Lotor’s headboard. With his legs sprawled out at all angles, he nods and pats the mattress beside his thigh.

Thus invited, Lotor slithers into Shiro’s lap. Straddling Shiro’s hips is easy. So is rubbing his hands down Shiro’s shoulders, over his Depeche Mode t-shirt. Lotor curls one hand around Shiro’s wrist, but stops short of guiding him to touch anywhere in particular. Partly, he hesitates lest Shiro bristle against something that might strike him as a command that cares little for what he wants or doesn’t — which could ruin their evening, right when things are going so well.

Mostly, though, Lotor gets held up on how much bone rubs against his palm. Stroking his thumb along Shiro’s, Lotor fights to keep his face from betraying anything he feels. If he can’t put words on what it is that’s thrashing around inside his chest, then Shiro might decide to blame himself. Might decide that he’s done something wrong by simply existing, or by wanting to get something sexually from Lotor instead of always giving.

As Lotor slips both arms around Shiro’s shoulders, he forces himself to breathe evenly, for fear of Shiro getting any notions in his head that Lotor doesn’t want him here. Nudging his forehead against Shiro’s calms his nerves for now. He knows what he wants well enough to mutter that Shiro can touch him if he likes, because Lotor would enjoy that. Shiro’s hands fit perfectly on Lotor’s waist. They’re right where they belong, grazing down Lotor’s thighs, or sneaking those callused fingertips beneath the hem of Lotor’s own long-sleeved t-shirt. When Shiro finds his skin, Lotor shivers with how much he _wants_ those toughened patches touch him everywhere.

Simply feeling that desire — thinking how much he wants to get the real thing, and not more of this teasing — makes a rush of _need_ and _ache_ and _longing_ jolt straight down Lotor’s spine.

But even rocking down against Shiro’s hips can’t keep Lotor from wondering if he’s gotten a good look at Shiro’s wrist before. It felt so _thin_ , but should Lotor be surprised by that? Does he need to be surprised? He can’t remember for the life of him, and his mind won’t let him forget about that lacuna when Shiro pulls him as close to his chest as their bodies will allow.

He has the right idea, yet there’s something missing. Something that makes Lotor’s craving burn that much stronger and offers him nothing in the way of satisfaction. He’s left eager and empty and twisting down on Shiro’s hips, unable to banish his worries that might not mean anything. Kissing Shiro helps, but only barely.

When their lips touch, Shiro lunges up into the kiss as if trying to devour Lotor’s mouth. Ready to let Shiro have that, Lotor coils tight around him, chest against chest, thighs against thighs. He smirks, winding on Shiro and writhing into this embrace as if his life depends upon it. He catches his breath and snags Shiro’s lip between his teeth. Snaking his fingers through Shiro’s hair, Lotor works Shiro over as if drawing poison from a wound.

Giving back as good as he gets, Shiro kisses like he means to lose himself completely, then leave Lotor with a fresh set of bruises in the morning. Lotor flings himself into Shiro’s mouth, as deeply as he can manage because that sounds just like Heaven. Maybe Shiro can’t tell exactly what he’s doing, skimming his fingertips up Lotor’s spine and sending fevered bursts of longing through him. Maybe he believes that Lotor doesn’t want him here, even though Lotor all but asked for him to stay.

Yet, for all his doubts, Shiro must know that he’s doing _something_. He huffs at the whimper that he coaxes out of Lotor. Lipping all over Lotor’s jaw and cheek, he doesn’t grace him with another kiss. While Lotor’s caught up in trying not to whine too petulantly, Shiro grabs his ass again. Gasping, Lotor yanks on his _“it’s complicated”’_ s hair. Shiro keens and that sound makes Lotor shiver. Still, an apology for pulling so hard bubbles up in Lotor’s throat, no matter how much he wanted to hear Shiro make a sound like that.

All apologies die unspoken when Shiro clutches Lotor’s ass so hard that a mewling sound claws its way out of his throat. He writhes in Shiro’s lap, in his hands, against his chest. So help him, he _will_ make Shiro feel everything, from the contours of his body to the way his heartbeat refuses any semblance of coherent rhythm, to the hungry fire that Shiro’s started in him and the way it blazes through his chest, his throat, his fingers. He will make Shiro feel pleased with himself, if he doesn’t already. He _ought_ to feel that pride, since Lotor’s reactions are all for him.

Rather than letting Lotor get a proper read on him, Shiro digs those callused fingertips into Lotor’s hip. Holds fast to Lotor as though there’s any closer he can really pull them. He chuckles at the strangled sound that Lotor fails to bite back, breathes that amusement — and Shiro _should_ be pleased. So few guys have ever filled Lotor with heat like this, and Lotor didn’t like any of them half as well as he does Shiro. Only one of them could tease Lotor with a fraction of Shiro’s precision.

Still, Lotor can’t help the guilt that twists in his lungs when his cock twitches. One quick bite of his lower lip. One grope of his ass, harder than Shiro’s gone in yet tonight. One more touch like Shiro has no intent of letting Shiro go — that’s all it takes to get Lotor fully hard. God, he still has his jeans on. He’s like a fucking teenager. All the work that Lotor’s put into foreplay, and Shiro’s cock hasn’t shown an interest.

Setting his jaw, Lotor palms at Shiro’s chest. He trails his fingers down Shiro’s torso, finding more fabric than he likes in search of Shiro’s body, Shiro’s stomach. Beneath him, Shiro twitches, legs squirming as Shiro’s hips rock up at him. Grinning, Lotor toys with the hem of Shiro’s shirts, teases with a mind to get under there and touch Shiro’s skin—

But Shiro lunges up into Lotor’s mouth again. He goes in hard, as if pulling back will kill him. He holds on for long enough that Lotor needs to whine before Shiro lets either of them breathe. Trembling, Lotor’s hands drop to Shiro’s thighs. He sighs contentedly as he pets the small of Lotor’s back. Lotor only wishes he had that sort of luxury, that his lungs might allow him that much. Yet, for all they ache and protest, he aches to kiss Shiro like that again.

The timing trips Lotor up, though. For Shiro to push back at _that_ moment, when Lotor made moves to get him naked? And was he writhing as Lotor touched his stomach? Or was he trying to escape—

Shiro goes for another kiss, but Lotor ducks his chin. His cheeks flush warm when Shiro’s lips land on his forehead. That gentleness — that whisper-light scrape of Shiro’s mouth on Lotor’s skin — Lotor can’t help gasping at it.

As if he has no idea what he’s doing, Shiro smiles like the tedious, saccharine baby angels on the greeting cards that Ezor and Zethrid enjoy graffiting with Sharpie and turning into borderline sacrilegious decoupage. He wrinkles his nose when his feigned innocence earns no reaction. He traces his fingers along Lotor’s ass. He blinks at Lotor’s hand settling on his shoulder.

Thankfully, Shiro follows where Lotor guides him, lies down on the comforter and props himself up on his elbows. A hungry glimmer flares up behind his eyes and his tongue flits across his lips. As if expecting someone to crash in and interrupt them, Shiro glances at the door, then looks back at Lotor’s window.

“Please pay attention, darling.” Stretching out his back, Lotor huffs. “I have no desire to repeat myself.”

Shiro nods. If he has questions, he doesn’t voice them. Without needing to be asked, he looks at Lotor’s face, not at Lotor’s fingers curling up in the hem of his own shirt.

“I have not allowed anyone to see this in some time,” Lotor confesses. “But for you, darling? I’ll make an exception.”

Peeling the fabric off of his torso gets an approving sound from Shiro. Tangled in his shirt, Lotor rolls his eyes. Yes, he’s quite beautiful. Yes, Shiro’s appreciation means something — but it is nowhere near as important as the confusion on Shiro’s face as Lotor throws his shirt to the floor, as he turns his arms so Shiro can see the insides of his wrists. This bewilderment, in turn, holds no candle to the way that Shiro’s expression melts as his gaze falls on Lotor’s scars.

Although they stretch up to his elbows, the vast majority have long since lost their luster. Still, his scars sit crosshatched over each other, ghostly relics of Lotor’s tumultuous adolescence, stark against the faded golden-brown of his skin. Shame blossoms in Lotor’s chest, squirms in his stomach as Shiro’s eyes go wide and his lips fall open. This is the most he’s felt about his scars in ages, but he still feels like he could vomit.

“Are you…” Shiro barely manages a whisper. He reaches for Lotor’s arm, but jerks his hand away. “Sorry, I — I didn’t mean? Can I…?”

Lotor’s lungs feel tight and empty, but he nods his permission. As Shiro lifts Lotor’s right wrist into the light, he whispers, “Being queer and half-Altean at an elite, all-boys, Galra prep school. I would not wish such a fate on anyone. Though Acxa had it interminably worse than I did, for several reasons that I am not at liberty to discuss.”

Shiro might be someone special. But nothing is worth the pain that Lotor would cause his best friend — the friend who has known him longest and has sometimes been his _only_ friend — by outing her. By stripping her of the choice to disclose her stories or not when she so chooses.

Fortunately, Shiro doesn’t press the issue.

Unfortunately, he presses his fingertips into a more recent and more jagged scar. Gnarled and an angry shade of pink, it cuts a long, lightning-shaped line over the older, more methodical scars, climbs almost up to Lotor’s elbow. It has faded from the scarlet hue it originally had, but it retains the raised knots that Lotor’s stitches left behind.

In a silence that Lotor can’t interpret, Shiro tongues at his lips and stares. No doubt, he can tell that this wound did not come from a knife, a razor blade, or a box cutter. With everything else he has intuited and guessed right about Lotor, perhaps Shiro can even picture how Lotor’s fingers trembled, the way that hands would not stop shaking — not until he sliced deeply enough.

“Broken glass and an ex-boyfriend were involved,” Lotor explains, tone pointedly neutral, as detached as he can manage. As if he can ever truly distance himself from what he and Hepta did to each other. “I broke up with him, and so he broke the glass. He slung several choice insulting epithets I had thought he would never use — mostly concerning my mixed heritage, though some were far more personal — and when he left me…” A deep breath does nothing for his nerves, but shrugging feels like it helps. “I gave myself the scar.”

Trying to meet Shiro’s eyes, Lotor gulps. He looks away. Straining to sound like someone commenting on the weather, Lotor adds, “I _had_ been clean for over a year, before that night. Nearly sixteen months. After that debacle, however…”

“It was all too much.” Shiro does not look up or condescend to Lotor with the upward inflection of a question. “Everything was a mess. Nothing else helped. You were feeling so… And it wouldn’t stop, it just… You needed _something_ —”

“I needed Zethrid to escort me to the emergency room. After I found that I could not stop the bleeding on my own power, of course.”

“Of course…”

Allowing that echo to hang between them, Shiro rests his fingertips on the scar that’s closest to Lotor’s palm. It’s so short that Shiro can cover its whole length with his fingertips. He can’t completely hide it, though, because Lotor made this wound thicker than his other ones. He dug deeper, when he gouged into himself. Its twin, sitting on Lotor’s left wrist, isn’t quite as bad, but only because his functional ambidexterity didn’t make much difference after he’d already hacked up one arm. Time has turned both scars white, and the bumps from his old stitches have smoothed out so much that they’re barely noticeable.

Although Shiro brushes his fingers along Lotor’s scar and his eyes gleam with gentle curiosity, he doesn’t let himself say anything. The silence makes Lotor’s skin crawl, and his stomach twists. This could be a mercy or it could be Hell. Most likely, Shiro intends to let Lotor know that his boundaries will be respected. But at the moment, Lotor’s still left with the need to explain—

“Ten years ago.” He ducks his chin if this will shield him from anything. What difference does it really make? He could get hard again quite easily, but for now, Lotor’s lost that and Shiro might soon change his mind and leave, anyway. “Facing certain decisions about a future that I wasn’t meant to have… It seemed that I could do nothing right… That there was no way out…”

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says without looking up at Lotor. He opens and shuts his mouth, searching for words that refuse to come to him. His grip around Lotor’s hand tightens, almost as if he’s trying to protect Lotor. But other possibilities exist and lifting Lotor’s wrist could mean too many things.

Then, Shiro kisses his scar.

Lotor’s breath hitches in his throat. He wishes that he could relocate his normal verbosity. Put a pretty ribbon on this situation — on what he’s told Shiro and everything he’s leaving out — and somehow make everything better. At the very least, he could find a way to steady Shiro’s nerves, if he had his wits about him.

But as Shiro sucks on his skin, Lotor can’t come up with anything.

As Shiro skims his mouth over the thinner remnants of his cutting, Lotor’s mind feels like a blank, white void.

As Shiro traces his lips all the way up the lightning-scar, Lotor trembles, bites back on the shiver coursing through him, waits for this tenderness to disappear. Whenever anyone gets sweet like this, it has an expiration date. Whether someone tells you so or not, eventually, they always rescind their kindnesses. They always decide to leave.

That must be what’s coming when Shiro sets Lotor’s wrist in their laps. He flinches as Shiro reaches toward him. Gasps when Shiro tucks his long cowlick behind his ear. Freezes when Shiro gently cups a hand around his jaw — but Lotor still opens his eyes when Shiro asks. If they only have so long together, then Lotor can allow himself to hardly ruin it by denying his _“it’s complicated”_ a request that ought to be so simple.

Lamplight gleams off the tears in Shiro’s eyes. He’s forcing himself to breathe slowly, evenly. What does that mean? What does any of it mean? From the tears to the soft way that Shiro’s thumb ghosts down Lotor’s cheek, it doesn’t feel like he’s pulling away. But he _must_ be getting ready for that. Not that anyone could blame him. Or that they _would_. This must be what Lotor deserves for wanting to see Shiro naked. And yet—

“Thank you,” Shiro whispers. “For trusting me with that.”

“I…” Lotor swallows thickly. Nods, but doesn’t rattle any of his mental wires back into place. “Thank _you_ , darling. For being someone whom I _could_ trust.”

“You deserve better than what they did to you—”

“I wish that I could show you… I mean, give you… Not that I haven’t, or that _you_ haven’t…”

Nudging at Lotor’s forehead, Shiro shushes him. “Hey. It’s okay. Please, Lotor, listen. Everything is going to be—”

He goes silent as Lotor presses on his belt-buckle. Inhaling deeply, Lotor pulls back from Shiro, so he can look him in the eye without his vision going fuzzy. Lotor needs to be careful about this, needs to be delicate about kneading his knuckles down Shiro’s fly. He doesn’t want to scare Shiro or put him off. Doesn’t want to push things too much, lest he go beyond suggesting things that Shiro has seemed to want before, into the realm of forcing him.

Slouching at the hips, Lotor juts out his lip. “Can I not offer you the same, darling?” He rests his hand back at Shiro’s belt, since touching his crotch might go a hair too far, given what he has in mind. “Can I not show you the same sort of…”

Good thing that Shiro nods, that he wiggles his hips and asks for help with his jeans. Lotor can’t come up with the word for what he wants most. Not in English, Galran, Altean, German, Russian, Mandarin, or French. He can’t come up with anything from Latin or Ancient Greek, though he’d need one of his lexicons before he’d trust any terms he could think of in either. Different words from every language racket around inside his mind as he undoes Shiro’s belt, unzips his fly. Yet, none of them give Lotor the _right_ end to his previous sentence.

None of them much matter when he gets Shiro’s jeans off, either. Lotor doesn’t allow himself to gasp, but he furrows his brow. Wrinkles his nose as he traces his eyes down the long, pale brown stretch of Shiro’s bare legs. While Shiro kicks out of his jeans, Lotor squeezes his thigh — what little there is to squeeze. Not that Shiro’s completely insubstantial, far from it. There’s hardly any give to his body, though. All muscle, bone, and sets of methodical, crimson lines up by Shiro’s underwear.

“Oh, _darling_ ,” Lotor can’t stop himself from muttering, caressing one set of Shiro’s own self-harm scars.

For all he prefers not to expose the back of his neck to anyone, Lotor bows for Shiro. He kisses the scars without any reservation. He only takes care to be gentle because he knows what it means for Shiro to share this with him, He knows how much trust it must take — especially if Shiro hasn’t kept these old wounds hidden for long. Lotor could be the first person to see them—

A dull _thwump!_ makes Lotor’s head snap up. Instinctively, he looks to his sides. Up and down. He tries not to grin too much when he sees what must have caused it: both of Shiro’s shirts, balled up in a heap on Lotor’s hardwood floor. _Yes_ , finally, Lotor can see Shiro’s body as Shiro has seen his.

His eyes land first on Shiro’s collarbone, straining against his skin so much that Lotor wonders if it could collect water. He rubs at Shiro’s leg, hopes that Shiro will focus on that contact, rather than on the way that Lotor purses his lips. Perhaps he’s imagining things, inventing problems where there aren’t any. He’s seen photos of Shiro’s brother (quite plump, soft around the physical edges); Shiro has said that Ryou takes after their Mother’s side of the family. Perhaps their Father’s side simply tends to run thinner and Shiro takes more strongly after them.

As his gaze drifts down to Shiro’s surprisingly skinny chest, Lotor trips up on another set of markings. More scars, muted red but angry looking, strewn across Shiro’s skin in an improvised constellation and every single one is perfectly round. Cigarette burns — they’re too small to have come from cigars, so there’s nothing else that could have caused them. Whoever did this to Shiro, Lotor wishes them nothing but suffering. For now, though, he ducks in and presses quick, soft kisses to each of the old scars. Above him, Shiro fails to repress a gasp. But he doesn’t say, _“No.”_ He doesn’t push Lotor away or try to escape.

Although he manages to keep his breathing even, Lotor can’t help lingering on Shiro’s rib-cage. He’s seen worse before, true. Still, he can pick out more bone than he likes. Even if Shiro takes after his Father’s side of the family — even _if_ his paternal relatives tend to be quite thin — there should almost certainly be more substance to him. More body fat, definitely. Tonguing at his lips, Lotor looks to Shiro’s stomach.

Gulping, Lotor clutches at Shiro’s leg. He can’t help that reaction: Shiro has almost nothing on his midsection. Lotor’s hands tremble. He tries to keep them still, but can’t. Not even curling one up in his sheets helps Lotor calm himself. His thoughts race until he feels like he could faint, head spinning as so many horrid pieces fall into place.

Shiro always takes meals with other people, but doesn’t enjoy them watching while he eats. Whenever he’s finished, Ryou and their friends spend at least an hour minding him. He doesn’t like trying out new restaurants, not unless someone has a copy of their menus, and he often orders the same things from the places he likes. One of his many journals has a meticulous food log in it; he went pale while explaining why he didn’t want anyone to peer inside. Sometimes, he talks about slipping up. He always eats so slowly, as if he needs to make himself put even the smallest morsel in his mouth. As if he needs to think about this process, give himself permission to eat.

Squeezing Shiro’s leg, Lotor takes a deep, shuddering breath. He knows what this is; he’s seen it before. How many times has he seen Acxa slipping back into similar habits? How many times has he noticed this before she did, or needed to stand by her as she fought herself back from how many emotional ledges?

Part of his mind screams at him to leave well enough alone, to let this go without comment. But Lotor’s heart reminds him of Ryou, of the way he assumed the worst when Shiro didn’t come home. Worse yet, when Lotor looks him in the eye, Shiro can’t keep the tears contained. They spill over, rolling down the hollow of his cheeks in a thin, glistening trail. Oh… Oh, _no_. The poor boy needs _someone_ in his corner.

“Darling, I — if you would rather not — we don’t need to—”

Rather than let Lotor put words on his thoughts, Shiro lunges up into his mouth. He kisses Lotor as if he’s starving. As if he’s suffocating and he needs to lose himself in Lotor’s lips or else he’ll die. Splaying one hand across Lotor’s cheek and part of his neck, Shiro digs the other one’s fingertips into Lotor’s hip and moans like he’s pleading for something. He lets slip a mewling sound as if he’s begging Lotor not to leave him.

When Lotor gets a chance to breathe, he nods. Says nothing, for now. Merely eases Shiro onto his back, slithers as he stretches out on top of Shiro, rubs his skin against Shiro’s and tries not to think about how much thinner than him Shiro feels. That says nothing good, considering how slender Lotor is, himself. Delicately, he writhes against Shiro’s hips, as if one false move could break his poor _“it’s complicated,”_ which is one of the last things that Lotor wants.

Shiro growls as he yanks Lotor down into another kiss. He grabs at Lotor’s ass like he means to leave bruises.

In the morning, then. Lotor should have his vocabulary back, by then.

  


* * *

  


When they’ve both come and the afterglow has died, Lotor lets Shiro have a first go at the shower. It’s kind of him, and Shiro appreciates it. Acxa and the others haven’t gotten home yet; letting Shiro clean up first reduces the chance of them seeing him in even the slightest state of undress. That is to say, without his jeans and his four layers of shirts.

Things might be better if he could get through this without fighting to keep himself from looking for Lotor’s scale. He’s never found it before, but it must be somewhere. Most normal people have one, after all, and for no reason that Shiro’s ever understood, they usually keep it in the bathroom. Granted, it’s better for Shiro that he doesn’t find it. He’s only supposed to check his weight with Dr. Troy, his primary physician, and Sophie, the dietician he who finally believed Shiro about what brought him to her office.

Still, as Shiro drifts off with Lotor curled up against his chest, he can’t help wondering where Lotor and the girls hide that thing. Can’t help wondering what he’d see on its readout, if he ever found it. Or would he be able to resist the temptation to weigh in ever so quickly, just this once, just to satiate a momentary curiosity and then he’d stop?

Probably not. Back in Chicago, it didn’t matter how well Keith hid the scale. Shiro always dug it up, and when he did, he always weighed himself. The process never went quickly. Worse: no matter how often he swore that this was the last time, Shiro never limited himself to _just that once_.

Come morning, Shiro’s at least moved on from thinking about the scale. Mostly, he can chalk that up to two things: Lotor kissing him before he goes to put on the coffee, and his phone buzzing with a text from Ryou.

 _[Let me know when you’re leaving Lotor’s]_ , it reads. _[I’ll see you at Yvonne’s. I love you.]_

Shiro fires back: _[Love you too. See you soon. Can you bring my meds? They’re on the counter]_

He waits for Ryou’s confirmation, but once he gets it, Shiro has an easy enough time of pulling himself up. Relative to how hard it’s been recently, Shiro barely puts in any effort. As he looks around for his socks, he can’t help marveling at the fact that he didn’t need to break the process down into its individual steps.

He shouldn’t _need_ to marvel at it, but apparently, that’s where his life has gone.

At least there’s Lotor, when Shiro joins him in the kitchen. In the pale light of morning, he shuffles around between the stove and the fridge, yawning as he explains what he likes to doctor his coffee in the morning. Why Lotor feels the need to talk about his exact preferred balance of milk and sugar, Shiro can’t say — but if it makes him feel better, then Shiro has no room to judge. It’s not his place to question Lotor, either, seeing as they aren’t together. Not in any way that gives Shiro the right to admit having an personal interest in Lotor or his issues.

As the coffee-maker dings to let them know it’s done, Lotor paws around the cabinets in search of clean mugs. Turning to Shiro, he has a hard time of maintaining eye-contact. He keeps glancing down at Shiro’s stomach. Or maybe just at his hips? _Hopefully_ just at his hips. Either way, he doesn’t stop until he needs to pour their coffee, and that reprieve only comes because staring at Shiro would too likely lead to Lotor spilling their drinks all over the counter.

Shiro almost lets himself sigh in relief — but then Lotor turns back and zeroes in on Shiro’s hips again. Or his stomach. Or both. Whatever he’s thinks he’s looking at, Shiro hugs himself and hunches over slightly. It probably won’t keep Lotor from seeing anything. Even if it could, he finally got Shiro naked last night, so he’s seen everything he needs to see. Still, something about this posture feels safer.

Holding up the container of sugar, Lotor makes himself look at Shiro’s face. “Can I tempt you, darling?”

“I’m good.” Shiro jerks his head. Probably shakes it too quickly. Probably, he’s too insistent about saying, “I only drink it black. But it’s a taste thing. Bitter and sugar doesn’t — I mean, I don’t — I just don’t like how those tastes mix, y’know?”

“You don’t need to justify your coffee preference. Not to me.”

Whatever he says, though, Lotor hums pensively — which, in reality, means absolutely nothing. He’s always thinking about something, more than anyone else Shiro’s ever met, and Lotor makes little sounds like that over so many things that the noises themselves defy interpretation. Regardless, he lets Shiro have his coffee, so do the unexplained sounds really matter? If Lotor decides to let Shiro in, then he will.

If he doesn’t, then maybe it was never Shiro’s right to want that from Lotor.

For several moments, Lotor drinks his own coffee without saying anything, leaning on the counter opposite Shiro. He glances between Shiro and the floor, possibly looking for something but possibly incapable of picking one place to rest his eyes. Maybe someone could find a calm in the pair of them not saying anything, or argue that they don’t need to use words in the first place.

But something about Lotor’s slouch looks anxious, not relaxed. Something about this quiet strikes up a pins-and-needles feeling on the back of Shiro’s neck, makes the pit of his chest feel heavy and tight. It’s like he’s waiting for something, for all he has no idea what.

Unfortunately, burying himself in his coffee doesn’t help Shiro any. Aside from filling him with something warm and caffeinated, it might as well do nothing. Sighing doesn’t help him, either. Mostly, it makes Shiro feel like the single most annoying person on the planet. He’s already pressing his luck with the fact that Lotor let him stay the night. Sooner or later, he’s going to realize that Shiro isn’t worth the effort. Between how Maurice damaged him and whatever about Shiro is so broken that he couldn’t help but take it out on Keith, Lotor would be better off with someone _whole_. He should be with someone _decent_. He deserves someone _good_ , not a total mess in faded jeans and yesterday’s Depeche Mode t-shirt—

“Darling, er. _Shiro_?”

Now, that cuts through his thoughts like a fist crashing into a jukebox. Ever since their first meeting, Shiro’s heard Lotor call him, _“darling”_ more often than his name. Bemusedly blinking, Shiro watches Lotor curl up almost timidly. Not like he’s trying to protect himself, but as if he’s afraid that he might say the wrong thing.

After two deep breaths, he whispers, “I know you need to meet your brother, but… May I ask a personal question?”

Shiro furrows his brow, but tells him, “Sure? I mean, go ahead?”

Which should get them moving in some direction. Instead, Lotor sets down his mug. He braces himself against the counter, clutching the edge with both hands. He goes still, which makes Shiro tighten his grip on the mug. How he avoids choking on his coffee while Lotor tries to get his words together, Shiro has no idea. That he drains it all and keeps breathing might be a miracle. His heart should be racing. His head should threaten to spin clean off his shoulders, or else get so bogged down in anxiety that Shiro can’t think at all.

Thankfully, Lotor looks up at him when Shiro puts his mug down by the toaster.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, shaking out his cowlick. “I don’t mean to drag this out, it’s simply… I also don’t want to ask too bluntly?”

“It’s fine.” Dragging one hand’s fingers through his hair, Shiro folds the other arm over his chest again. With a sigh, he grinds the small of his back against the counter. Through his hoodie, his flannel, and his shirts, he barely feels it — but even that little hint of pressure helps him meet Lotor’s eyes. “Just… _Please_ get it out, okay? I don’t care if you have to be blunt.”

“ _I_ care if I’m too blunt. It isn’t an easy question.”

“Then let it be hard. I can deal. But it can’t be anything if you don’t spit it—”

“Do you… When we first met?” As he inhales deeply, Lotor’s fingers tremble around his counter’s edge. He clings to it so hard, his knuckles start going white. It must take superhuman effort for him to keep his blue eyes locked on Shiro’s. “Do you remember how you told me that you’d recently come home from an inpatient rehab clinic?”

Shiro scoffs, trying not to laugh. “Yeah? Look, I know my memory can be scrambled sometimes, but that’s not one of the—”

“Were you there for an eating disorder?”

Dimly, Shiro wishes he were still drinking coffee, so he could choke on it or do a spit-take all over the linoleum, instead of gaping vacantly at Lotor like a deer that froze up in the headlights of an oncoming train.

Vaguely, he wishes he hadn’t set down the mug, so his hands would go slack and drop it, instead of balling up in his sweatshirt as if it might shield him from anything.

Faintly, he wishes he were better than this, so he could come up with an actual response, instead of shrinking in on himself and fighting his brain to bite out—

“How did you know?”

Flipping his cowlick back off his face, Lotor grinds one palm into the counter. “I… I’m sorry. I had hoped that — I wanted to be wrong. Very badly. Reading into things, as if—”

“But how did you _know_? Did I do something _wrong_? Do I look _sick_? I shouldn’t — or not as much as I _have_ —”

Cutting himself off with a deep, sharp breath, Shiro tries to remember how stupid he’s being. Silence his doubts like cutting the head off a snake. He hasn’t purged anywhere that Lotor could hear him do it. Shuddering probably doesn’t make this easier for Lotor. It definitely doesn’t help Shiro feel any better. Neither does gripping his own elbows, or digging harder at the counter.

God, he must look like a headcase. Worse, an _inconsiderate_ headcase, who’s exacerbating a conversation that was never going to be easy.

Yet, when he looks back to Lotor, Shiro can’t spot a trace of judgment. Lotor’s eyes are fixed on him, yes, but they’ve gone wider than normal and they gleam with sympathy. None of his usual knife’s-edge glint. None of his smirking, or his glowering, or one of the façades he curls up in like a pill bug, but they’re close enough to reality that none of the girls see fit to call him out.

Jesus, _Lotor_ is trying to be honest with Shiro. Giving as good as gets is the absolute least that he can do.

“It… That wasn’t why I went in,” Shiro admits, ducking his chin and trying to ignore the hot, sick rush of shame that washes over him. “I thought it was just gonna be, y’know? Standard thirty days for alcohol and opiates. I didn’t _think_ I was talking about it too obviously with the shrinks. Or being weird like that in group. Or doing anything wrong at meals, but?”

Shrugging, he can’t look Lotor in the eye. “Then, during a one-on-one session, one of the shrinks asks if I’ve ever been diagnosed as anorexic. And if so, then why didn’t Ryou and I mention it during intake—”

“I would guess that you didn’t mention it because you _hadn’t_ received such a diagnosis, _not_ because you willfully refused to provide them with relevant information.”

“Pretty much. We got that cleared up pretty quickly, at least, but…” Shiro’s shoulders quirk, almost of their own volition. “I guess I was in a better mood after dropping weight between check-ups or something? I don’t know how they could _tell_ … The only moods I remember are, like?” Huffing, he shakes his head. “I don’t know, they sure weren’t anything _good_.”

“No, I should think not.” Lotor brushes his ankle up Shiro’s calf without any obvious intention — but he still doesn’t give Shiro an answer.

“How did you _know_ , though?” Inhaling deeply, he makes himself look Lotor in the eye. He owes it to Lotor, right now. Owes Lotor the bare minimum while he’s promising, “I’m not angry. Or not with you, anyway. I just… I just want to know, okay?”

“I don’t take much comfort in the fact that you might be angry with yourself. Especially when you haven’t—”

“Please tell me how you knew? What did I do, is there anything, or what I—”

Lotor holds up a hand. Once he’s sure that Shiro won’t interject, he explains, “I’m sorry, darling. But I am not at liberty to give you a complete answer to that question. I can tell you that I knew what to look for, and that I saw certain behaviors of yours that would likely escape the notice of most other people. The reasons _why_ I have such knowledge, though…”

Sighing softly, Lotor pushes himself off the counter. “They aren’t my secret to tell.”

“I respect that,” Shiro says, because he does. He could probably try to guess whose secrets Lotor has under lock-and-key — but clutching his elbow, Shiro tries to push those thoughts away. This isn’t his business to pry about. “Whoever you’re protecting? They’re lucky to have someone who understands, y’know? Boundaries. And respecting them.”

“I do try my best.” Lotor waits, hovering at the edge of Shiro’s personal space. Once he gets a nod, though, his long, thin fingers caress Shiro’s wrist. He leans in, but rather than kissing, he nudges their foreheads together. “Thank you for trusting me with the truth, Shiro. It means a great deal to me, and whatever you may need, however I can help you? I am at your disposal.”

Down in his pocket, Shiro’s phone buzzes with a text. He should check it and probably reply. Ryou only has so much needs to be on campus. He’ll worry if he doesn’t know that Shiro ate. Even if he called in for a half-day, citing a family emergency — or worse, telling Mitch that Shiro needed some _“extra attention”_? That will only buy him so much leeway. Besides, meeting for breakfast was Shiro’s idea of a compromise and he needs to take his meds. If he doesn’t honor this promise, then Ryou might progress from understandable nervousness to full-blown panic—

“D’you have any plans for, like, right now?” When Lotor shakes his head, Shiro sighs in relief. “Can… Would you? If it’s asking for too much — probably is — you can tell me, ‘No’? But I—”

He inhales sharply. Lotor squeezes his wrist. Warmth floods over Shiro, steadying his nerves better than anything has in months.

“Come to breakfast? With me and Ryou?” Shiro swallows thickly. “…Please, Lotor?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t mind, but…” Lotor’s tongue flits over his lips, and Shiro holds back from telling him to put on lip-chap. “Would your _brother_ object to my presence? I don’t want to impose. Or make the meal more difficult for you.”

“I don’t _care_ whether my brother objects or not—”

“Yes, you do, darling. Pretending otherwise won’t help you—”

“But I _want_ you to be there. Want to, y’know? Spend more time with you.” Shiro sighs. Another desire bubbles up in his throat as his phone buzzes again, complaining that he still hasn’t read the text. “How will pretending I don’t want that help me? It _won’t_ , right?”

“Not if my experience holds true, no.” Humming, Lotor rubs his thumb along Shiro’s wrist. “I can walk there with you, if you like.”

Shiro nods. “What about meeting me after, too? Can you do that? Or is it too much for…”

“Nothing is too much for you, darling.” A quick peck on the cheek, then Lotor pulls away, smiling so peacefully that Shiro almost doesn’t believe it. He might not look so calm if he knew how Shiro really wanted to end that last question, but— “Let me get dressed. Then, you should tell your brother that you’re on your way.”

As he watches Lotor scamper back to his room, Shiro makes up his mind. Unless something goes terribly, horribly wrong over breakfast, he’s asking if Lotor wants to be his boyfriend. After how badly he did wrong by Keith and how badly he hurt a guy who deserved so much better, Shiro shouldn’t have a chance with somebody like Lotor — and yet, he does.

So help him, Shiro _cannot_ let this chance pass him by.

**Author's Note:**

> Shiro’s usual ringtone: “ **[Better By You, Better Than Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I3UOkxdsh-8)** ” by Judas Priest.
> 
> The ringtone he currently has assigned to Ryou: “ **[Swallow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9y5JdyoDj4g)** ” by Emilie Autumn.
> 
> And as ever, I’m also on Tumblr (amorremanet) and Discord (amorremanet#5500), and yes, I adore hurting my fictional faves — but I generally do try to make things better for them, eventually.


End file.
